TheLiteraryHarrovian
Cover
photography by
Leo Tse
Meditations / On a Blue Marble by Catherine Hu (Y12, Gellhorn)
Ars Poetica: A List by Nicole Lau (Y13, Keller)
Stories Under a Nightlight by Flora Chen (Y12, Anderson)
Reminiscent
by Angelina Lu (Y12, Wu)
by Nga Kiu Ho (Y11, Gellhorn)
by Yutong Yan (Y12, Keller)
Starving by Isabella Lam (Y11, Wu)
Redress for Cincinnatus C. by Chloe Zhuo (Y12, Anderson)
Isabel by Nicole Lau (Y13, Keller)
i’m (not) a poet by Valerie Ho (Y13, Anderson)
Introspective by Annette Chan (Y11, Gellhorn)
Inhumane Humanity: The Real Monster of Frankenstein by Catherine Hu (Y12, Gellhorn)
To Stay in Omelas by Ashlee Kwan (Y13, Wu)
She Goes by the Name of Humanity by Aarya Kotecha (Y8, Parks)
a tribute to fools (you and i) by Ashley Tam (Y11, Gellhorn)
Shattered Celebrations by Paris Wang (Y11, Gellhorn)
Glasses by
18 19
21 Goodbye by Grace Chan (Y8, Nightingale)
WHAT TO DO IN THE EVENT OF SPRING’S ARRIVAL by Prima Wong (Y10, Keller)
Yesterday’s Hope by Sebastian Johnson (Y13, Shaftesbury)
How Has Writing Affected Humanity? by Tristan Lui-Schwille (Y9, Shaftesbury)
At the same time by Jessica Wong (Y7, Parks)
22 Things That Make Me a Human by Grace Chan (Y8, Nightingale)
23
24 The Sun Sets on My Circuitry by Levia Lau (Y11, Keller)
Two
Charlize Mui (Y12, Wu)
E LITERARY Team
Editors-in-Chief:
Nicole Lau, Jessica Keady, Prinda Li
Senior Editors:
Paris Wang, Jessica Cheng, Cherly Chan, Catherine Hu
Editors:
Chloe Zhuo, Michelle Ko, Carmilla Wang, Nga Kiu Ho, Flora Chen, Isabella Lam, Leo Tse
Heads of Design:
Flora Chen, Jenny Lin
Illustrators and photographers: Leo Tse, Chloe Lau
Staff writers: Sebastian Johnson, Jessica Cheng, Ashley Tam, Paris Wang, Angelina Lu, Nicole Lau, Isabella Lam, Flora Chen, Chloe Zhuo, Tristan LuiSchwille, Catherine Hu, Ashlee Kwan
qualia-noun.aqualityorpropertyasperceivedorexperiencedbyaperson
Stepping into the 7th edition of the Literary Harrovian, it feels especially pertinent to reflect on the diverse complexities that make up the human condition As we look back at the previous themes of Time, Power, Love, Identity and Legacy, Life and Loss, and Change, constructs that have governed humanity for millenia, one particular question arises – what exactly makes us human? Philosophers from Ancient Greece to the modern day have sought to answer this age-old question to little avail. And so, as humankind has always done, we turn to literature to catch glimpses of the elusive human nature, to provoke deeper thought and discourse
In the study of philosophy of mind, the Latin qualia refers to the subjective property of a person ' s conscious experience, something that is uniquely possessed by humans and cannot be replicated across different species. With this edition, writers have strived to identify this qualia and ineffable range of distinctly human experiences by taking to (metaphorical) pen and paper This issue is allencompassing in its approach; whether it be rational thought, our shared morality, or the minutiae of every ordinary day, writers have ascribed significance to at least one feature of humanity Many have explored the transformative power of storytelling and poetry as closely linked with human identity, with several writers also taking inspiration from existing literary works such as Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar This collection of 22 poems, short stories, and essays is meditative and heartachingly familiar, revealing a pronounced focus on the human resistance to and eventual acceptance of change
It is perhaps fitting that these works contain such melancholy, as we are sadly now saying goodbye to the publication that we have held so close to our hearts for the past three years. Despite this being a bittersweet moment, we feel confident that the Literary Harrovian will be in more than safe hands in the future, and will be eagerly looking forward to annual publications Please continue to use an unreasonable amount of Oscar Wilde quotes in every edition! We must also extend our gratitude to our teacher supervisor, Mr Sallabank, for his unwavering support and guidance, our graphic designers, Jenny and Flora, and our Senior Editors, Paris, Cherly, Jessica, and Cathy, for taking time out of their busy schedules to contribute to this year ’ s edition. The Literary Harrovian Team is also extremely proud to sport the newly designed Literary Harrovian merchandise, continuing its bright legacy as Harrow’s longest-running publication Thank you to everyone involved for making this issue an incredibly special one
We hope this edition offers you a sliver of insight into the multifaceted face of humanity by highlighting the expansive nature of creative human potential. The development of literature throughout history is a testament to this, as is our work at the Literary Harrovian
After all to create stories is perhaps the most human thing of all ading, ssica, and Prinda
I. Being Human by Rebecca Sugar
II. Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears
III. What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong
IV. Like Real People Do by Hozier
V. What Could’ve Been by Chezka
VI. The Scientist by Coldplay
VII. Naked As We Came by Iron & Wine
VIII. Tell Me Lies (fin) by Wasia Project
IX. As the World Caves In by Matt Maltese
Meditations /On a Blue Marble
by Catherine Hu
At this moment you stand in quiet contemplation. Take a deep breath. There you are. Yes at this moment, when after decades of war and terrible victories, you remain standing, still and straight as a steeple, in the centre of your rooms, towns, cities, countries, and Earth. All that you know.
By now you will have experienced the imprudent comings and goings of strangers, of giants who existed in a time now-forgotten. Kneel down. Put your ears close and listen for chatterings of what’s to come. You imagine the inconceivable, grasp at fragments of ephemeral thought, reach out for a liminality that cannot be felt or seen.
You seek guidance on what it means to be human.
Stepping into the vast slate of a new world, you were once frail and naked, barely awoken from the warm darkness of your mother’s body into a long, long dream. And all at once you realised that you were alive, that the world around you was alive, that there were others just like you.
I picture you now, one by one. You dreamed, first of simple things: Of fire, of sunlight, of fields and running rivers. You dreamed together; you put your arms around your children, bodies pressed close like hands in prayer. And oh, the things your dreams become! Artists who paint themselves pink and purple, musicians who fill rooms with unsaid words. You dreamed, very beautiful things indeed.
But now you realise: what weight do your dreams hold in a world that you cannot know?
You are not singular, yet at the same time you are utterly alone. So open your eyes again And look out at your surroundings.
Until now, you have not seen many things to be human is to revel in the bliss of unknowingness.
And at this moment, you’re still here on your little Blue Marble in space, caught and suspended in the transient nothingness of dilated time. All that you know is able to be cradled in one’s palm. You call it The Universe.
“It is because Humanity has never known where it was going that it has been able to find its way.”
-OscarWilde,TheCriticas Artist
Ars Poetica: A List
by Nicole Lau
1 That it is grounded in humble origins
That I thought it through, worked my way back to the memory lying beneath words embellished, to the nursery rhyme I first memorised, its thumping pulse past but present, lost and then revitalised
2. That it is totipotent. That it escapes the paper and pen, expanding, then shrinking down to the room of two lovers, where Giovanni’s and Donne’s and Mew’s coalesce, its multiple forms shifting and shifting, never still.
3 That it curls under my kindling touch
4. That it lends itself to music.
5. How it shapes history, and how history shapes it. No, we do not write in water Creation is concrete, its touch palpable, its hold immense
6 Its power in protest
That words can be melded together, in rhetoric, and spat out in bitter spouts, raw Eat. This is the body of my creation. My subject is war, and the pity of war. The poetry is in the pity.
7. That it is fallible. Let down the veil, the veil and watch the poet underneath resurface.
Let the allusions come forth, not literary, but personal, I know
8 Just how much it conveys
9 How much it doesn’t convey
10. That I took it on – and it was enough. That I am, was, untranslatable, all poetry stoppered up: otherwise worthless, otherwise gone.
ByFloraChen
The morning of September first dawns clear and bright, stretching out tentative rays against the windowpanesofSixthStreet.Inaflurryofdustandfervouritslightdissolves,cleavingdelicatecrystal toburstuponthecurtainsoffifteen-year-oldAvery’sroom
Ontheothersideoftheroom,theteethofacombsievethroughlongblackstrands.Carefulfingers twisttheheavymassofhairintoimmaculateformation;forwhatwasreallythethirdtime,butto Averyfeltlikethehundredth,shestepsbackassplotchesofcolourirrigateandpoolinhermirror.
Thereflectionisacuriousthing–no,acuriousnotion,foritisneithercorporealnoranillusionbutcleverlighttreadingthefinelinebetweennonexistenceandreality.
Formuchofherlife,thatiswhatAveryhasbeen–anotion,thefaintestwhisperofintellectmoulded andpliedandtransformedsomanytimesbytheflittingfanciesofthosearoundher,untilshespoke onlyinechoedlinesanduninflectedaffectation
Anewbeginning.Thisday,thefirstdayofninthgrade,meansjustthattoAvery.Throwingbackthe curtainswithasuddensurgeofabandonment,sherevelsintheprospectofstartingafresh–inanew school,awayfromherimplicatedpast,awayfromhim.
Newly unhindered, the light reforms before her, a pulse thrumming against heaven’s chest, with lengtheninglimbsofnerveandsinewwhichpartthethreadsofexistenceastheycatchAveryinawarm embrace Forasecond,therestofrealityfallsawaywhilstthesunpoursitsnourishingbreathuponher
ThenthemomentendsandAveryisleftstandingbeforeherdressingtablemirroroncemore,staring intotheeyesofhalfagirl;initsheseesthesamecleverlightthathasfaithfullykeptholduponher insubstantialexistence,butalsotheshadowofsomethingnew–somuchsoashadow,thatitmaynothaveevenbeenentirelypresent,butwassimplyafragmentofhershatteredmind–aglintofhope.
‘Allreadyforthedayahead?’
Averyturnstomeethermother’stiredeyeswithsurpriseatthesoundofhervoice Shesupposesshe shouldfeeltouchedbyEvelyn’spresencethismorning Usuallyforcedoutofthehouseatthecrackof dawnandkeptonherfeetuntilthedeadofnightbythethreejobsshekeeps,itseemsEvelyntoo recognisestheimportanceoftodayforherdaughter,enough,atleast,tostayandseeheroff.
Averymanagestochokeoutabedraggledwordofagreementbutplummetsintofailurewhenshetries topairitwithasmile.
No,I’mnotready.Thesefoursimplewordsoftrutharewhatshewishesshecouldsay.Buthowcanshe airsuchgrievancestoEvelyn,whohassufferedthroughallthatAveryhas,andmore?No,thepainof pastinjurywastoofreshuponboththeirmindsandbodiestobeflungsocasually,socarelesslyinto conversation TogivevoicetotrifleimpertinencessuchasthoseincurrentcirculationaboutAvery’smindwouldbeoutofthequestion.
InthebrieftenminutesittakesAverytoleaveforschool,theskiesbecomemysteriouslyovercast The drenchingsunlightofearlierhoursfadesintofondmemory.
Outside, the wind rises, retrieving in its wake the last remnants of lingering heat. Summer foliagesuccumbstothismostundesirablecold,theircoatsofgreenwitheringawayasyouthintooldage.
Averytreadscarefulstepsasshewindsherwaytohernewschool.Thepathshetakesisforeign,andthe thud-thud-thudofhershoesagainstgravelfeelsasifsheistightrope-walkinguponsomeoneelse’s lifeline–intrudinguponastorythatisn’thers
Astorythatisn’tmine.Wordsintrinsicallyplainandwithoutsomuchawhisperofpoeticinclination, butdependingonthepersonfromwhichtheyspillheldallthepowerintheworldtomaimandinjure.
In the back of her mind long-suppressed remembrances begin to stir, in an instant rising beyond recognitiontoburgeoningamalgamation.Itsurgestotheforefrontofherconscienceandburstsina pandemoniumofflashbackswhichteaseandtangleandpull,swirling,swirling,swirling.
Likeinthattimeinfifthgrade,whenthegirlwhomAveryconsideredabestfriendofmanyyears would turn away from her without a second’s hesitation, would discard half-a-decade’s worth of sleepoversandplaydatestojoinabandofgirlswithegostoobigfortheirowngood Themonthsof lonely lunchtimes and free hours spent friendless seemed like they would stick with Avery for a lifetime–
–oreighthgrade,whenclassmates,slickineverysensebutschool,wouldcrowdherunfailinglyatthe startofeachgroupproject,vyingtotakecreditfortalentthatwasnottheirs,themomentAvery’swork gracedsparklingscoreswouldonceagainconsignherexistencetooblivion–
–orlastyear,whenhewouldcowerundertheguiseoflove,wouldspringattheslightestprovocation frombehindfalsebenevolenceinatangleofbloodlustandvengeance,thetearswhichwouldleak dignityfromhereyesasshewatchedsplotchesofcolourbloomunderhermother’sskin.
This is not your story, ‘Father’ would say. It does not concern you. At first, her mind clear and charactertrue,shepaidhimnoheed.Astimetoiledon,thecumulativepressureofhiswordsweighed heavyuponhernaiveyouth,andAvery’sjuvenilebodybegantobendandtwistandtransfigure–
Thisisnotmystory.
Inthatcase,allthesestoriesandmore,whosearethey?
Thewindingpathcomestojarringclosure.Standingbeforeapairofimposingwrought-irongates, Averytakesherfirstgoodlookathernewschoolupclose,thebrick-and-mortarjunglewhichisto becomehersecondhomeforthenextfouryears.Shiftinghergazefromwindowtowindow,she catchessightofagirl,lookingafewyearsaboveinage,hasteningtoreachhernextclass.Thehalfhumourousaffairoftardinesshastwirledherbrowsintofurrows,buteventhenherfeatures,kissed withsteadfastcontentment,couldbedonenodisservice.
ItisinthatinstantthatAveryreachesanepiphany,onethatunfoldsbehindhereyeswithsuchjolting vibrancythatsheisallofasuddenovercomewiththeimpressionthatshehasnotbeenpreviously livinginaworldofcolouratall.
Mystory.
Spokeninsimplertermsthanbeforebutnowimbuedwithallthepastpoets’greatbeauty.Drawingin adeepbreath,Averywalksherstoryonwards.Onpassing,shetakesnoteofadomedmirrorsuspended atthetopoftheschool’sgate,thekindinstitutionsfixatopplacestograntpeopleanunobstructed fieldofvision Andso,Averysees,forwhatmaybetheveryfirsttime,allofher–herstoriesofthe past,storiesofthegoodandofthebad,storiestwinklingwithpromiseforthefuture,allunequivocally andindisputablyhers.
Flashingherselfaquicksmile,Averyslipswithnomisgivingintotheseaofstudents,herheadheld highasshedivesintothegreatbeyond.
On days like these
When sunlight emerges no longer My rose pink curtains
Seem to fade ever so stronger
For when I was a child
The world dressed in bright colour
As I lay a hand
Pressed gently to the glass
Each finger goes icy Numb at last, Staring from inside
The raindrops lead me astray
From the murky, tainted skies
That now chase me most days
They dance and part and fall Slobbing down my window
Like some desperate wipeout doll
I long for sunshine
Some sort of sign
That I’m not washing away
My precious younger days
To which I once cherished With toothy smiles
And waist-length braids, Now I just gawk at mirrors Play dress-up everyday
Because each person I am Is another put-on play
Rain, rain, when will you go away?
Leave me to sunshine
Where I can be again
Blinded by the light I would much rather see nothing Than see these dull nights
byNgaKiuHo
Thedaysofsummerarelong,strungout.Itismylastdayatthecarehomemyuncleputmygrandmother in Tomorrow,mymotherandIwillheadbackhome,andIwillbetrulyalone Isitonthestepsofthe home,breathedeeplyin,andslapawaythefliesthatstrayfromadyingplanttotheFruitPastilleinmy hand.Inside,mygrandmotherplaysbridgewithmymother,oneoftheyoungernurses,andamanwhois youngerthanherbutnottaller Thehomesmellsofsomethingblandandmilky Ameltingicepoptraces sugarylinesdownmyhandandIholditawayfrommysidesothefruitjuicedoesn’tdripdownmyleg Theskydims,bluestartstoleachaway,andIheadbackinside.“Comewalkyourgrandmabacktoher bedroom,”mymothercalls.Nexttothereceptionist’stable,thereisawaterdispenserbutnocups,soI formaladlewithmyhandsandsipatthewaterunsteadily Somethingflaresinfrontofmydiaphragm, andIhopethewoundishealing.
Inautumn,thepoisoninmystomachcreepsupmyveins,spattersmyribswithacid,andsearsaburning holeinmyback Mymotheristheonewhowheelsmeoutofthehouseandintoacar,whichbringsmeto thenearesthospital.Mystomachburns,burns.
Twohourslater,thegoosebumpsonmylegsfeelalive There’sablanketovermythighs,butitscratchesin awaythatfeelslikeit’spluckingthehairsfrommyskin.Iwanttogetdressed.Thedoctor’sgazepinsme tothebed,butit’snottheonlythingholdingmethere–mywoundhassappedallthestrengthfrommy limbs,suckedthevitalityfrommyblood “Lightbloating,”hesays,“youcanseeitinherpelvisbutit’s strangethatit’sspreadtoherleftthigh,”andIdon’twanttohearanymore.Hisglassesmagnifyhiseyes, modelingthemintoglassyspheresthatglistenandtwitchlikealargedragonfly’s.Eventhoughheisthe onewholookslikeabug,Iamtheonetrappedundertheglass “Itwon’tgetanyworsethanthis,”he reassures,andmyfingersspasminvoluntarilyagainstthecoarsehairsoftheblanket Mymothersqueezes myshoulderandpromisestomakemeporkbonebrothwhenwegetback.
Winterarrives,soslowIcanbarelytrackthetemperatureasitfalls Igotoseethedoctoreveryweek becausehehastoldmymotherthatmywoundispronetoinfectioninthecold.Onmywalkback,Ifinda newbruiseatthetopofmyshin.IinspectitmorecloselywhenI’mhome.Thumbingitsendsasharp, pricklingpainupmyknee,likethelightpurplinghasfrozenmynervesandicicledmyblood
Thenextday,Idon’tfeelwellenoughtogetoutofbed.WhenItrytositupandpromptlythrowupthe contentsofyesterday’sdinner,mymothercallsthedoctoragain
“Sosoon?”Hesays.“Allright.Canyoudriveherthere?I’llmeetyouinthirtyminutes.”
Iimaginethefacesofanexpectantfamily,waitingfortheirbug-eyedfathertositdownforlunch, andaslowacheseepsintomychestlikesomefoulliquid.Mymotherbundlesmeintothecar. WhenIopenmyeyes,herknucklesarewhiteagainstthewheel.Iclosethemagain.IfIstuffthe endsofmyblanketintomyearsandfocushard,Icanfeelthesilentthudofmyheartagainstmy chest Bloodtricklesintomylungsandflows antigravity upmyesophagus,cloggingupmy nose Ba-dup,ba-dup
Whenwearrivebackhome,Iamcarryingaplasticbagfullofmynewmedication.Mymother opensthedoortothekitchenandstartsupthestove.“Moresouporsomethingelse?”shecalls, butthedoortomybedroomclosesbeforeImusterupthestrengthtoanswer.
Muchofmyspringisspentindoors,butIdon’tspendasmuchtimewithmyeyesclosedasI should Mynewdoctorhasputmeonastrange,widebeltthatcompressesmywaistandseemsto wanttosquashmyintestinesintooneanother,andsoIspendmydaysstrappedtomybed,the humming,whirringbandamedicalstraitjacket.Theworldoutsidemywindowispale,washed out,butmymotherinsistsit’sburstingwithlife.Instead,whenIrunmytongueovermyteeth, saltbloomsinthecrevicebetweenmyincisorsandmygumsandIvisualisethisinmymindlike tinywhiteparoxysms Atnight,Icannotfallasleep,soItrytoclosemyeyesforlongerandlonger witheveryblink;thecooldarknesscombinedwiththestiflingheatundermyblanketsplacesmein awarm,familiarbubble,andthedarkblankceilingthatgreetsmyopenedeyesfeelsallthemore alienandstrange.Thisstageoftreatmenthasplacedmeinasicklyinterlude,andwitheverypillI take,thegaping,fathomlessterrorofwhatmightcomenextwashesovermeanew.
Itissummer,andmymothertakesmetomygrandma’shomeforalastvisit Whenhercarpulls upintheparkinglot,Ilookoutthewindow,anditiscompletelydark Blackcloudshavesnuffed outallthestars,riddingtheskyofanypinpricksoflight Gaslampsilluminatetheroughtarmac asmymotherpushesmywheelchairupthedriveway.“Spareyourgrandmathedetails,”shewarns me.Myheadlollstooneside.Iamtootiredtonod.Insidethehome,thescentofReceptionhas changed:nowthewallssmellofsomethingchalkyandmedicinal.Thefliesthatusedtoloiternext tothewindows,halfinandhalfout,arenowgonetoo Mygrandmacomesoutfromaroomat theendofthecorridor,anursegrippinghertightlybythearm Theyhobbleoverslowlyandmy grandmareachestoembraceus “Sweetchild,”shecries “Iwishitwasme”Mymothershakesher headatme Idon’trespond
Laterinthecar,mymomdoesn’tsayaword.Intherearviewmirror,Inoticethatthelinesonher facearedeeperthanever.Sheturnsontheradioanditstartsplaying,asongbyBillieHoliday aboutitbeingeasytolivealifethat’sfilledwithlove Iturnmyheadtotheside Iclosemyeyes
The Fruitless Tree
by Yutong Yan
m last night and you were in it
saw through my half-opened eyes of browns and greens.
tree on a field pressed jade o stretch skywards mpt
ustion
one in front of Father’s house. bursting plump golden red out and plucked a few d down bucket to save it into them, t sand.
old me that fruits were no good unripe.
as staring at you of bones and flesh decorated in a sad chinoiserie e scar left of your elbow t to pick the same one I have.
ve but no sound comes out s call out my name t once again.
ove I move?
ted in the oozing ground pick the apples down one by one by one them into the great eternity spinning backwards h the flicker of a fantastic fire in your eye t was all for my own good.
nd here frozen watch the golden red apples turn to sand.
by Isabella Lam
I am starving, I think
Longingcravinghungering for something out of reach
This gnawing pit in my stomach
I do not touch the food I have
A house with a front porch and a fluffy dog
A man who is more a father than a husband
The kind of life my parents would want for me, I think
ta v ng
And I would not be happy but it would be enough
A poet, my joy found in creation
Yet all the beauty of the world would not suffice
I would hunger for something more, I think
And I would not find success but it would be enough
A lifetime spent wandering
Aimlessly Pointlessly Hollowly
The ocean to hear my laughs, the moon to wipe my tears
And I would be alone but it would be enough
A patchwork of people I had met
An existence filled with nameless faces and faceless names
Yet when I find it love will be my hamartia
And I would lose to love but it would be enough
I am starving
The food in front of me spoils, rotting into the floor
The chasm it opens swallows me whole
The soil is wet The tree taunts me
And I want somethingnothinganything
Everything.
How human.
Painfully. Tragically. Devastatingly. Human.
To starve in the face of a feast
ArtbyBettinaLam
This is inspired by Sylvia Plath's metaphor of a fig tree from The Bell Jar I elaborate on some of the lives she pictures herself in The poem as a whole focuses on the insatiable nature of humanity, the idea that we will always want more, and in every lifetime she pictures, she remains unsatisfied, in one way or another. It will always be sufficient, but never truly enough.
A rodent nibbled me like a slice of cake, Creeping, Snout twitching, Crepuscular.
I won’t remember the germs sinking like Lint, Chalk-dust,
A diorama of planned words
The tree hardly bloomed in the gardener’s shed
Weighted with a brick-red shawl, Its roots were enjambed like two books slipping, half-spheres curved from a center
I transplanted the storm into my journal, the marshy odour of rotting leaves,
The golf course at the top of the mountain,
My grandmother’s tin of biscuits catching cold, Crystal leapt off the grate near my father’s house
The golf course resembles a palace, at the top of that mountain
Tiny white spots slide on lineless grass.
The rodent whispered, You’re depressed
You keep staring at the top of that mountain And hoping someone will see you.
I said, I’m not depressed, It’s the storm that’s transfixed me Look at my journal if you don’t believe me. …
Two vermin unsheathed pages of cream Uncovering illustrations of children in great play, Aimed towards one final putt.
The golf palace had visitors today It filled the sun with great, extraordinary, satiating play
Until the noon, when Sunbathers luxuriated and wrinkled Children hollered in hot air, And foiled sandwiches came tumbling downhill Their jokes fell on the lawn first, Heaping piles of crap, Old clubs, dice
Then their secrets, Which were dull and compact: Pocky sticks two months old, Toddlers
I stood etching the outline of the golf course, alone on the veranda.
The rodent left me 2 months ago. But the sun emboldened my shoulders like a greasy jewel
Unearthing old manuscripts, sketchbooks with some name on them, I was prophesied of a palace-in-the-making-
The plans!
The dirt-covered shovel!
Why shouldn’t I go to the golf course? And why shouldn’t I go?
As I etched and stood
My tan blinded the sun
Enraged, spurting a fountain of corn soup
Some miscellaneous articles of seafood refuse Oysters, and shrimp, and slimy fish
Far away from the perfumed halls of the gold course
I knocked on the soil. I demand to go to my golf coarse It’s taken so much away from me It opened up its breast of sand and lively weeds, Giving that precipice of 100 degrees Something to cling on to.
I slithered on my journey, Then the houses fell with every step I dreamt of Pythagoras, or Fermat, Angling out repetitions on the hill. Discovering what to do with the size of the mulberry lawn, Which must be given some principle or reasoning
The grass was more vivid, as in a child’s painting. I stood at the gate, Which was ridged with iron, And gorgons guarded the entrance with emerald eyes
The sleeping guards at the gate patrolled and patrolled. In a cage nearby
There were thirty who had already been turned away Arranged in pyramidical fashion, with the fattest at the top, and a tiny girl, in a plastic raincoat, Curled at the bottom.
Just on the stretch inside of the gate
You could see the children playing, with their clubs pirouetting through the air, The adults leant back on metal stools, observing
It is time to submit my proofs.
Good-night
The guards dreamt through the wreckage. As they sat hitched against walls, Their spread legs shaking like lost birds, They thought of their sullen daughters, alone in their villages, Their disgraced grandmothers, with wooden signs around their necks. Their merry employers rolled down the hill,
The angry women screamed, The maids ganged up on themselves, Until the carousel of the lawn spun with excitement
On the top of the golf course lived a brassy jewel. And as children slammed and screamed and sliced, The woeful men that had stayed climbed up to the brassy jewel And threw it onto the dismal lawn, where it tore like a corset with a broken seam, and the air ebbed with quiet.
From the hole in the jewel
Emerged a creature clad in a black coat, With her lips carved in scarlet, And the architecture of her bun laced neatly back
Maestrassina.
She took two girls’ hair by her fists and braided it with her fingertips. Madra, maestrassina.
The heavenly arch of her neck indicated That of a curve of a mountain
She brought the maids back to their classrooms
She put the woeful men in shock therapy. She brought the merry men back home, and made them tend
To the angry women.
She knelt next to the dead
In the cleared-up debris, She felt its forehead (still livery with cold) And the sunburn on its neck. Which, when she took the girl in her arms, shaking her, Slipped off like a mask
Clinging now was only the soft, pink skin
Of a newborn.
She touched her fingers to her lips and then the forehead.
Back to sleep She went.
LThe Hiteraryarrovian
byNicoleLau
Isabel
It starts in Sunday school: a leap of faith. Do you believe in God?
There I sat faithfully. What a silly question! Everyone believes in god.
Within the church, ears extend for whispers of the wholly other. I squeeze my mother’s hand thrice to signal yes, I do believe in god.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit A choral sigh We learn about atheism in school We struggle to fathom disbelief in god
I push my hands together, shape a house of sinews collapsing in on itself.
There I sat faithfully, believing in god. God. A careless, built-in God.
The organ sounds with episodic ringing. Let there be solace, found in the crevices of a confession booth left wrangling with belief in God.
Without the Church, the earth begins anew. I devote myself to faith, a faith of certainty and determined patterns, crying ‘Believe in God!’
But I am my Father’s child The clergy circle my dreams, looming
There I sat faithfully, god-pledged Priest: We are one, believer of god
The Literary Harrovian
Edition VII: Humanity
Originally an Arabic verse form, medieval Persian poets embraced the ghazal, eventually making it their own. It consists of syntactically and grammatically complete couplets; each couplet ends on the same word or phrase (the radif), and is preceded by the couplet’s rhyming word (the qafia, which appears twice in the first couplet). The last couplet includes a proper name, often of the poet’s. In the Persian tradition, the subject matter included religious belief or mysticism.
(Source: Poetry Foundation)
i’m (not) a poet
by Valerie Ho
syllables weave into harsh sounds i suppress lodging my throat rotting my core in a trove of unspoken words, a death by wolf’s bane
wordless gasps and silent tears match chapped lips and a severed tongue paint my unreliable narrator my only narrator. my thoughts spin with overdramatised imagery where thoughts whirl out of grasp metal blades cutting at potential sighs to spur cloying melodies in a one person merry-go-round my prison.
empty stares at emptier coffers exhausted of words and meanings emptied by a past prodigy who stares at tiles unchiseled, unchanged, unwritten empty unclear messages behind a masked statue of fleshy clay and marbled bone my fake David an imposter’s Shakespeare a punishable treason ‘to be or not to be’ a poet or a poet.
“As it was, what could bind, tame or civilise for human use that wild, generous, untutored intelligence? It poured itself out, higgledy-piggledy, in torrents of thyme and prose, poetry and philosophy which stand congealed in quartos and folios.”
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Introspective
by Annette Chan
“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Proclamations of dominion bellowed with frivolous flair
When emperors perched on intricate thrones
In grand, resplendent castles full of bones
Built on the blood sweat and tears of those vanquished
In blazes of fire and blood and anguish
Mostly they were of peasants, caught in the crossfire.
After all the earth is littered with the ruins of empires that once believed they were eternal
Come summer, we will have fruit to harvest
From the landowner’s palms, prosperity we shall wrest
In two months the cherries will be ripe
Placed gently into this dark night – its Orwellian warnings are not just tripe
Cursed with tenderness by the thorns of fate’s thread
Burdened by blood that is yet to be shed
Soon, with innovation the sprout will be met
Little did they know that with every trade there would come a debt
“Beep! Beep!” A car horn sounds
Inside it sits a family holiday bound
The street: crammed with children’s mischievous laughter
Followed by mothers stressed at how much they have to look after
Crowds shuffle past in the midst of the hustle
Employees drained from sleepless nights caught in the bustle
Of living paycheck to paycheck in a series of manmade traps
Class today, exams tomorrow, and graduation the day after
Entire lives laid out, predetermined by a number on a piece of paper
Little people marked, branded, by the dreaded red pen – the devil’s advocate
We are all born a blank slate
Polluted by the harsh realities of the world, the reality that we created
My head is spinning as I journey through the endless cycle
The long winding staircase down to darkness in a spiral
A dark, empty void of nothingness forever nothing
For how long I don’t know, all I know is I know nothing
For infinity, perhaps
When we emerge bloody and bruised will there be claps?
Like a tunnel, in one end: an inferno, out the other: it persists
In bursts of wildfires fuelled by ignorance – it is bliss
But this tunnel constricts as you flow – like a funnel
More narrow, more ruthless, snaking, slithering
Around your body like thorns, entrapping
You in its venomous embrace.
Darkness. Then light.
You dream of a clearing in the middle of the forest
Away from the bushes that scrape against your wrist
Surrounded by the beautiful bloom of bluebells in the spring
You lie down, push to the back of your mind the mundane things
And feel
Feel the damp patch of grass beneath you grazing your skin
The cool wind breezing past in the shade where it is dim
Sweetly scented sunflowers dance and take in the scene
Of the sun’s warm rays smiling, they beam
Knowingly, as if letting in on a secret
We live, we laugh, we love
We forget.
InhumaneHumanity: TheRealMonsterof Frankenstein
by Catherine Hu
In the 1818 Preface of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley states that she ‘endeavored to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature.’ In other words, by writing Frankenstein, Shelley attempts to define the intrinsic human roots that we are beginning to lose This essay will argue that Shelley has presented humanity as the real monsters of the story, a portrayal that can be said to be a wider assessment of the moral views of society. Exemplified by his unnatural roots, rejection from wider society, and the reduction of his status to a mere product of Victor’s selfish curiosity, the Creation is shaped by the cruelty of humans Despite being singular in his species and being borne of all things negative, the Creation embodies the natural human qualities of empathy and sensitivity, and these features define him as equally human to others Through juxtaposition between the Creation and humans – his curious innocence towards human family versus the prejudice of humankind, his yearning for language versus the desire for scientific knowledge – the Creation is used to highlight the moral goodness and inherent sanctity of the human species from which we have strayed. When we learn of his experience after leaving Victor’s house, a complex situation is presented where the reader is left to make their own decision on who the true ‘Monster’ of the story is, a judgement that reveals the placement of human sympathies Thus, the novel goes beyond a tale: it is a criticism of evolution and the current moral condition of humanity
It should be acknowledged that the portrayal of the Creation as inhuman does not automatically make him a monster The term ‘monster’ implies immorality and corruption; these characteristics are exclusively possessed by non-human beings. Instead of evil actions, what initially generates the association of the Creation with the word ‘monster’ is the purely superficial depiction of his appearance (as we later become aware of his motivations and empathy): ‘His hair was a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with [ ] his shriveled complexion and straight black lips ’ The Creation is shown to be made of perfect parts, suggested by ‘luxuriances’, ‘lustrous’ and ‘pearly whiteness’ However, this is juxtaposed with the imperfect: ‘shriveled complexion [ ] black lips’ It is this strange amalgamation of perfection and ugliness that makes the Creation unfamiliar and horrifying to the human psyche – not, in fact, any sense of character
‘That class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar’ – Freud’s idea of the uncanny states that feelings of discomfort are incited when something familiar becomes unfamiliar The Creation plays into this, becoming the ‘other’ because he pushes the limits of human knowledge and recognition – he is, after all, the result of Victor Frankenstein’s twisted experimentation through grave-digging and reanimation The humans in the story reject the Creation because he is too familiar to themselves The Creation is made by humans from human parts, yet he becomes a symbol of the perversion of human nature This could attest to the subconscious intolerance of humanity as they reject what should be theirs Does there exist some primal fear of the uncontrollable and inherently dangerous nature of humans, something that Victor is acutely aware of but refuses to address? The Creation is not physically unfamiliar, so it must be the essence of humanity itself that induces terror – what is long known to mankind, if not human nature itself? Hence, prejudice can be seen as a corruption of humanity in the novel – it manifests when we, as humans, cannot accept our true nature Shelley makes an argument about how our judgements of others have changed for the worse, taking on a ‘monstrous’ form as our lack of acceptance builds on our immorality
Frankenstein’s creation becomes an immoral and monstrous being when wider attitudes are projected and thrust upon him With no initial power of speech, he must accept what people dictate of him; the label of a monster is branded upon him by others before he is even able to form a personality or opinions Perhaps it can also be said that it is the context of his unnatural birth that makes it unprecedented The Creation is not born of a mother, but rather stems from Victor’s greed for fame and subversion of the natural cycle of birth and death, making him an abomination Shelley herself had a mother who gave birth out of wedlock, and Shelley, like her mother, was scorned for eloping. Considering this biographical detail, Shelley perhaps attempts to address the ‘monsters’ of society by representing this in the Creation Just like a human, the Creation is born a blank slate, but he is forcibly reshaped as a product of human society’s inability to accept those that deviate from the status quo The novel acts as both a defense of and a spotlight on social injustices
From this perspective, it can be said that the Creation is pushed away from his spot among human society by human society. The Creation only becomes detested and feared when he comes to life: ‘He was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived ’ Here, Victor reiterates the horror that is the creature coming to life Shelley writes that the Creation was ‘such a thing as even Dante could not have conceived’ This reference to Dante’s Inferno, where numerous monsters are encountered through the circles of hell, and the difference between simply calling the Creation ‘ugly’ to then implying he is beyond hellish is revealing about the nature of Victor’s experimentation It is only when the Creation is given life that he starts being perceived as horrifying, indicating that it is not its being that is hellish, but rather the process of him coming to life and taking on the unsaid imperfections of human nature
Perhaps Shelley, a Romantic poet herself, comments on the dangerous expansion of scientific knowledge and an over-rationalisation of humankind In the early 19th century, society underwent the Enlightenment where there was a significant transition from religious beliefs to secular beliefs In the context of the novel, Victor is the very embodiment of this transition; he is the vessel that crosses what is known and what is unknown, between the realm of God and the realm of science This explains his reaction: he is not scared of the Creation, but he is scared of the implications of his actions One could interpret this as Shelley suggesting that mankind’s exploration of uncharted knowledge removes us from the essence of humanity The novel is a hypothetical musing of where science could go. If we push the limits of humanity, God and life, we might cease to be human
As Arendt states in The Human Condition, the hope to ‘extend to man ’ s lifespan’, is a move towards ‘cutting the last tie’ between us and our natural human condition Essentially, she defines that human life is the ultimate limit If we lose the boundary of death, we cease to be human A lifespan is the definition of a person, and even the desire to reach this frontier of science (as represented by Frankenstein’s goal to ‘ renew life’) is something that marks the onset of monstrosity onto humankind.
The ironic contrast between the horrors of humanity and the seemingly innocent nature of the Creation is a jarring moment for the reader, and it is the moment in which our perspectives shift. For some, they might lean more towards sympathy, and certainly, there is an element of purity and curiosity to the Creation, as shown when he says ‘The words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles, or sadness [ ] This was indeed a godlike science ’ In Volume II Chapter IV, the Creation starts to learn language, and the novel turns into a story about growth ‘Pain, smiles, or sadness’ refers to the role of language as a vessel of empathy, consolation, and emotion The Creation learning about humanity is significant as language is closely associated with the concept of humanity as a whole – humans arguably have the most complex forms of communication in the animal world. By achieving eloquent speech, the Creation becomes closer to the humans in the novel The way the Creation develops is not unlike a human child, with an innocent curiosity exemplified by the phrase ‘god-like’ science The way he views language as science contrasts with science as alchemy (as defined by Frankenstein) – both stem from curiosity, but one comes from greed while the other is a natural part of learning Thus, language is god-like because it has the power to influence thoughts and emotions, but it is also god-like because unlike scientific knowledge, it is inherent to human development and does not have a boundary that creates adverse effects when crossed Shelley makes an argument that we are all born with a natural and morally correct curiosity – it is somewhere within the development of a person and the development of the human species that our disposition diverges from how we are naturally meant to be
Furthermore, it could be argued that the Creation simply does not live up to the title of monster from a moral standpoint As he begs Victor to create a companion for him, he cries ‘I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit [ ] with the companion you bestow I will quit the neighbourhood of man [ ] My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy!’ Here, there is a comment on our loss of sentimentality The creature has the simple wish of companionship as he promises to ‘quit the neighbourhood of man ’ , attesting to the importance of relationships Companionship is shown to be an essential part of human existence. This is an idea first introduced by Walton’s letters. The letters sent by Walton are a reprieve from solitude, and they emphasize the social bonds that sire emotional reassurance This contrasts the Creation and reveals what he is missing: solitude (once again caused by the rejection of humans) causes him to lash out In a rising environment of individualism, Shelley asserts that one cannot be alone As shown in the novel through the Creation’s abandonment and Victor’s gradual loss of all his loved ones, what moves humanity along is collaboration, procreation, and togetherness Without this, we lose what makes us human in the first place, and we become monsters
Finally, we also see the Creation learn emotions, suggested by the words ‘passions and sympathy’ However, it is later Frankenstein’s destruction of the mate that causes the creature to start experiencing feelings of vengeance in addition to feelings of love that he felt towards the family His range of emotions brings him closer to humanity, but it is also his feelings of anger that drive him to commit murder, making him a ‘monster’ beyond his appearance The Creation’s primary motivation for his violent actions – his anger – is a crucial part of the novel’s message; a critical assessment of the moral human condition is produced by the implication that it is the simple human characteristics of emotion that corrupt the Creation and result in the events that make us view him as a monster
In conclusion, we find that the classification of a monster comes from superficial perceptions of appearance or are directly caused by unethical actions such as unrestrained scientific exploration or prejudice. While the Creation does have ‘monstrous’ attributes, Shelley suggests that these aspects of his identity only reflect humanity’s current state The Creation serves to define what humanity once had but now lacks: curiosity and yearning for meaningful relationships, and most importantly, morality Because the definition of a monster is shaped by morals and ethics, the humans in the story fit into this role more It is the actions of humans that cause irreparable damage, grief, and desire for retribution It is because evil is needed to nurture evil that humankind is the true monster of the story
The bright side of the planet moves toward darkness and the cities are falling asleep, each in its hour, and for me, now as then, it is too much. There is too much world.
Czeslaw Milosz, The Separate Notebooks
by Ashlee Kwan
‘To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.’ – Ursula K. Le Guin
Those who walk away from Omelas don’t know where they’re going. They walk with poise; their deliberate steps disguise their disgust
They walk into silence, an empty aching that presses in on all sides. Some do not walk away alone, joined by others who fell into step behind years ago; who gave away their guilt to the next.
If they meet another’s eyes at all, it is a brief glance, fleeting as the swish-fall of a footstep on wet grass
But they know what Omelas is what it is not: a place without sacrifice.
So they walk away, clandestine and faceless, trails left in dust soft as a devoured conscience, intentions pure as they are naïve And yet still they walk
Those who look away from Omelas yearn for a better alternative
Some let the door click shut without a backward glance, a choice between compliance and culpability, innocence and impotence
Some toe the line, their humanity unscathed by revelation They sleep like stones
Those who stay in Omelas understand what joy is.
To hope and to despair, amalgamated in the same perfumed air. They know they are not free because they are guilty But they know where they will sleep at night
They know it is not their fault, yet own the burden with a stoicism mistaken as cruelty
And oh, are they content; content in ways those who look away dare not let themselves believe They stay because they refuse to escape into a false ideal.
Artwork by Bettina Lam
She Goes by the Name of
She Goes by the Name of
by Aarya Kotecha
I walked along the pebbled roads
Viewing people in their different modes
The fatigued mother
Just like the others
Colliding with the polished businesswoman Who was also a mother
Their children sat down and played Together
Until disaster came
The children shoved and pushed and fought Until the mothers attentions were bought Losing the once bright scene
See
This is what I mean about her About humanity
Her face opens But also closes
Her mouth smiles But also frowns
She has birthed dictators And creators
She has witnessed peace And conflict
She goes by the name of humanity
A fountain of love and a sea of chaos
It is up to us
To choose her fate
Humanity
Humanity
fools
a tribute to fools (you and i) a tribute to
by Ashley Tam
(you and i)
“to love is to lose”, they tell me, but when the heart ties, tangles and tears, isn’t it better to not love at all and be free?
fools tell themselves to be cynical, to quiz and question and query but the mind games perplex them and the walls tumble down, “to love is to lose”, they tell me.
fools tell themselves to control their glee so why does their wavering hope always extinguish? isn’t it better to not love at all and be free?
fools tell themselves to guard their heart, to not let it flee but vigilance proves difficult. still, they fight because “to love is to lose”, they tell me.
fools tell themselves to lock their emotions and throw away the key, that loving is dangerous, a naive one’s hamartia so isn’t it better to not love at all and be free?
fools (you and i) tell ourselves all this just to fall on our knees like atlas quivering under the weight of the world, no, love: a punishment, but still, “to love is to lose”, they tell me, to which i respond: “isn’t it better to not love at all and be free?”
Shattered Celebrations
by Paris Wang
Ithadbeenadayfilledwithequalpartsprideandpromise.AsIwalkedacrossthe stage,diplomainhand,thunderousapplausefromfriends,family,andstrangers washedoverme.Thiswasit.Thiswastheresultofyearsofsleeplessnights,tiresome studysessions,andmyowndetermination.AsIstoodbeforemyclassmates,Ifelt invincible,certainthattheworldwasminetoconquer.Myfingertipstingledwith thepossibilitiesofthefuture.NeverbeforehadIfeltmoreunstoppable.
AsIhurriedbacktomydorm,Icouldbarelycontainmyexcitement.Ihadneverlet externalinfluencesaffectmystudies–that’swhyIwasrarelyseenoutsidemyroom after10PM.Thatnight,myfriendshadinvitedmetoagraduationparty,andthis time,Iaccepted.Theideafeltliketheperfectremedytotheuncompromisingrigours ofacademia.
Iranmyfingersalongthesoft,familiarfabrics,eachpieceatestamenttothehoursI hadspenthunchedoveralaptop.Onestyleofsweatsuit,inallthecoloursofthe rainbow.IrememberedwhyIhadpurchasedsomany–itwastomakemyselffeel betteraboutspendingallmytimeonperfectingmygrades.Ihadtoriflethroughthe backofthecloset,buteventuallyIfoundthesparkly,shortdresswithaplunging neckline.IstillrememberthedayIboughtit.Ihadgroanedandmoaned,not understandingwhyIneededsuchanimpracticaloutfit,butmymumhadforcedme totryiton,persuadingmethatIwouldneeditinthefuture.Thatdaywasoverthree yearsagonow;Ijusthopedthatitwouldstillfitme.
Suckingin,Ipulledthespikyfabricovermyhead,andstruggledwiththezipper. Hesitantly,Ilookedinthemirror,andIdidnotrecognisethepersonstaringbackat me.Itwasperfect.
Icouldstillfeelthepulsingbassthrobbinginmychest,theneonlightsflickeringon andoff,castinganelectricglowoverthecrowds.Icouldstillfeelmyheartracing withexcitementasIjumpedalongsidemyfriends,asItookmyfirstshotofthe night,andhowtheliquorburnedbutIstillforcedmyselftoenjoyit.
Thedrivehomewasakaleidoscopeofblurredcoloursandfuzzyshapes.Thestreet lampsturnedintoorbsoflight,distortingmyvisionasIweaveddowntheroad.I blinkedagainandagain,tryingtoclearmyvisionandfocus,buteverythingseemed tobeturningandshiftingbeforemyeyes.Thewhitelinesbecamesmudged,andthe roadseemedmorelikeaseathansolid.Crimsontaillightsaheadofmeswirled, leavingglowingtrailsintheirwake,likeapathguidingme.
Theredlightsmorphedintowhite;theysuddenlyloomedlarge,blindingmewith theirflash.Theyrushedtowardsme,growingbiggerandbrighterbythesecond.
Icouldseeacar,itsoutlineflickeringonandofflikeamirage.Inapanic,Itrampled thebrakes,andmycarskidsandlurches,refusingtostop.Ahornblaredout, emittingalastshrill,desperatewarning.TheonlythingIcoulddowastobrace myselfandslammyeyesshut.
Iexpectedtohearanear-splittingcacophony,thetsunamiofacrash.Instead,Iwas metwithsilence,exceptforthemuffledringinginmyhead.Oncethatpassed,the silencewasdeafening,allowingmetohavealucid,sobermomentofclarity.Asthe adrenalinesubsided,acrushingwaveofshameandregretwashedoverme.How couldIhavebeensoreckless?HowcouldIhavebeensoirresponsible?Awhole, promisinglifeaheadofme,thrownawayforonefoolish,drunkennightofpleasure.
Ididn’tremembertherhythmicbeatpulsingintimewiththeflashinglights.Ididn’t rememberthestenchofalcohol,sweat,andperfumeswirlingtogether,hangingin theheavyair.Ididn’tremembertheclinkandclatterofshotglassesandicecubes, breakingthroughthepalpablemusic.
Instead,Irememberedthewide,gap-toothedimpishgrinofmybabysisterasshe tookherfirstlickoficecream,hereyeslightingupinunbridledexcitementasthe chocolatesubstancemeltedalloverherfingersanddress.Irememberedhowmy parents’faceslitupwithprideastheygazedatmycomputerscreen,bannersand confettirainingovertheword‘ACCEPTED’inboldandfullycapitalised.I rememberedhowtheireyesshonewithunshedtearsofjoy,crinkledatthecorners andteethgleaming.Irememberedtheroaraswetossedourcapsintotheair,every facealightwithtriumph,andhowweallhuddledtogether,untroubledbythe stickinessofsweatclingingoneveryone,beamingforthecelebratoryphoto.
Then,likethetollingofasombrebell,thepiercingwailofasirenshatteredmy silence,itsshrillsoundcuttingthroughtheair.Withadeepbreath,Iletmyeyesfall shut,desperatelytryingtoquietthechatterinmyheadbeforeIhadtofacereality again.
AsIlaythere,strappedtothemetaltable,Itriedtomakesenseofwhathadjust happened.Howhadeverythinggonesowrong,ononeofthebestdaysofmylife? Strangely,Ifeltnopain.Everythingwasnumb.
HowmanytimeshadIheardthewarnings?Thepleastonevergetbehindthewheel afterdrinking?ThefeelingoftriumphhadsomehowconvincedmethatIwas immunetotherisks.Withthemuffledvoicesaroundme,andthesirenstillblaringin thebackground,allIcouldseewastheconstantlyshiftingceilingtilesaboveme, creatingaclaustrophobicsenseofisolation.IrealisedthatIwasunabletomove.The lackofautonomyovermyownbodywasuncomfortableandunsettling,causingme tofocusontherepetitivepatternofthetilesasthesenseofhelplessnessgrew.
mmyeye–somethingIneverallowedtohappeninfrontofothers ere,Ifeltstrippedofallmyusualdefences,vulnerableandalone. straight-jacket,andtherewasnoescape.
The Literary Harrovian
Two glasses, hidden in the cupboard. One made before the other Crystal clean, pretty and pristine, Safely stowed away for that special day
One glass, stored away in the cupboard. The other on the table, surrounded by others from all angles–laughter and chatter, The other remained in fear it would shatter
Two glasses, hidden in the cupboard.
The first one scratched-next to it, another safely stored glass, not yet affected For it is too young and safely protected
Two Glasses
by Charlize Mui
The younger glass stowed away, the older under pressure.
Filled with sweet liquid as a safety measure. No cracks yet, smiles all around Hours and hours to make the eyes proud
The first glass–eroded slowly, Used again and again once more. The fingerprints, the liquid poured Enduring it all for its role
The second–observed closely how the world seemed to grip the first too tight then let it slip The glass went cold
One glass, alone in the cupboard. Afraid of being alone but staying covered. Hiding away, so it wouldn’t have the same Fate as the glass it once admired
Within the cupboard, an empty space. The younger glass now taking the place of the first one, who was discarded away. The second is in fear of a similar day
Two glasses. One safe, One broken. The second remembers all the words spoken by the eyes and hands that would use the first, exploiting it to quench their thirst
The second glass-before it broke like the first, with resolve it spoke: “My entire life, I stayed on the shelf. But the world forces me to crack and shatter Between choosing that and to break myself, I’d rather choose the latter!”
So, it runs and runs far away. Far enough that the eyes can no longer prey On the brittle glass, aware and afraid Its eyes opened to reality–hardship and pain
The second glass ran and met the other In paradise, they lived together. No longer struck by the world’s scrutiny They lived asleep in peace and harmony
Treat your glasses gently, treat them with care. Then all your glasses will stay with you right here. But when words bubble up, the glass may crack. When a glass is broken, its shards slice back
Two glasses, though not the same. Both lived amidst the world’s cruel game. Two glasses, once in the cupboard. A matching pair–a sister and brother
Goodbye
by Grace Chan
Five days until I leave my youth behind, I prepare to reach adulthood,
Four days until I leave my weakness behind, I prepare to fill myself with strength,
Three days until I leave my naivety behind, I prepare to open my eyes to the storms Of reality,
Two days until I leave my playfulness behind, I prepare to sacrifice The childish wonders I’ve always known,
One day until I leave my innocence behind, I can’t prepare. I can’t prepare for The burden That I will Have to carry When I Leave it behind,
On the day that I leave it all behind, I glance back at Blissful ignorance One Last Time, And say goodbye
Photography by Gisele Sze
Yearsdooddthingstoidentity. Whatdoesitmeantosay Iamthatchildinthephotograph atKishamishin1935? MightaswellsayIamtheshadow ofaleafoftheacaciatree felledseventyyearsago Mmovingonthepagethechildreads. ightaswellsayIamthewordsshe read orthewordsIwroteinotheryears, flickerofshadeandsunlight asthewindmovesthroughtheleaves.
UrsulaK.LeGuin,Leaves
WHAT TO DO IN THE EVENT OF SPRING’S ARRIVAL
by Prima Wong
Thiscanbereadinthreeways:
1.Readthefirstcolumnasasinglepoem.
2.Readthesecondcolumnasasinglepoem.
3.Readthewholepoemhorizontallyfromcolumntocolumn.
Break Earth’s sleep
Feel the absence of wounds
Brush off shards of ice that were Engulfed in your rigid frame, Everything that thaws around Reaches out with hands, Facing the morning dew.
The light, at first touch warm: Ignites bubbles of laughter
So that you capture a static slice of time
Know there is no reason to Allow the clay to sink back
Or forget your title and what came before, Because it holds no grip on you
Because Spring will come again
As sunbeams toil across your disturbed face, Penetrating your whole being Ripping you from your bed of rest. Calloused and heavy, Try not to forget how It inflames the being Trapped deep within your core
One quick flash and it’s done
Find an answer
In deep roots
Fall into a torpor
And the time will pass anyway. And soon cold weeks will b b k
Yesterday’s Hope
by Sebastian Johnson
Yearsago,Iwasn’tnearlyastall, Andyet,Ididn’tfeelatallsmall.
Istoodupandlookedtotheheavens. Duringlessons,duringconfessions, Icouldn’thelpbutimagine
Therollingcloudswere,infact,adoringcrowds, Oh!ThatglowinggrinningSun,wasinfact,mynumberone, Thegreatandmanytrees,theretosheltermefromthebreeze Andthatstarwhichshonegoldinthenightsky,toreachher–Well,Iwouldbecomeafamousentrepreneur
UpthereIsawwhatIthoughtwouldunraveloneday, MylifeapaintingbyMonet
Butthenthedreamswentwrong,somewhere,somehow. Myworld’slostsomeofitscheer,theshineitusedtohave Theairjustdoesn’ttasteassweet.
Perhaps,thisisjustwhatcomeswithmaturity,youseetheworlddifferently. Perhaps,it’snottheworld,butmethat’sbecomelessfull.
Whatever’snew, Lifecontinuesinitsgreyandchangedway. AsIstarteachnewday
Isay:
‘Thisonewillbefulloflife
Itwillbegoodandgreat,nomatterwhatstrife.’
AndI’veprovedmyselfafalseprophethundredsoftimesover, Butwhatcanyoudo Excepthopeforafour-leafedclover?
Whatcanyoudo, ButhopethattodaywillbeTheDay? Thattomorrowwillcomeasextraordinaryclay? Whatcanyoudo,butrememberyesterday’shope?
How has Writing Affected Humanity?
by Tristan Lui-Schwille
In an era filled with rapid technological advancement, political shifts and economic change, we tend to forget how to answer a simple, yet most important question: “How did we get here?”
How did we go from apes that struggled each day to survive off the land to the masters of the planet, being able to record one of the most complex organs – the human brain – in digital form? The amount of progress we’ve made as a species is simply staggering.
From comparing the rate of modern innovation to that of the past, many assume that humans have gotten smarter. But why is this the case? Looking at the planet’s history, even our closest genetic relatives – the chimpanzees – have not gone past the most rudimentary wooden and stone tools after over tens of millions of years of parents teaching their children.
“You have to know the past to understand the present,” said Carl Sagan, pioneer in the field of exobiology (the study of extraterrestrial life). In order to better understand the world that we live in and gain insight into the future of it, we must first look at what allowed us to succeed as a species in the first place. Let us observe the pivotal role that writing has played in our development.
Around 300,000 years ago when we, homo sapiens, first came to be, we lived in a similar manner to the chimpanzees of today. We were hunter gatherers working with simple wooden and stone tools, but after continuing on this path for over a hundred thousand years, everything changed in 3400 BC, when the first recorded pieces of human writing were created.
This created a major change in our rate of development. Following the invention of writing, humanity seemingly entered the Bronze Age in 3300 BC with immediacy, bringing us creations such as the wheel, ploughs, and bronze weaponry. This in turn allowed us to increase our population which led to an overall growth in the amount of knowledge and developments being written down and passed on. Continuing for approximately one hundred years, this development led to the Iron Age in 1200 BC, providing us with stronger and more efficient tools, weapons, and armour; this laid the groundwork for the construction of larger cities and infrastructure. The advancement continued and almost three thousand years later, the Modern Period in 1500 AD brought with it the Renaissance, in which the ideas that would become the basis for modern scientific research would be founded.
It is because of writing that we have advanced this far in the first place. The earliest cuneiform tablets found in ancient Mesopotamia (present-day Iraq) recorded agricultural data that enabled generations of people to learn and improve crop yield and land management. Egyptian stone tablets and hieroglyphs allowed for the labour-intensive documentation of medical conditions and treatments, including instructions on the removal of tumours and several other non-invasive surgeries. The first forms of woodblock printing created in the Tang dynasty (700 AD) allowed for the efficient copying of single pages to be distributed to the masses.
Finally, the invention of the printing press in Europe allowed for the economic mass production of pieces of writing. With reusable, movable type printing a single set of characters could be used to print a multitude of pages by simply rearranging them, allowing the above ideas to be shared far and wide so that they may be expanded upon and improved.
Concurrently, the skill of reading itself also became more and more widespread. Originally restricted to only the nobility and their scribes, various economic and social factors pushed reading and writing into the sphere of common knowledge. Over time, reading has also become a prerequisite for almost any career. Nowadays, illiteracy is rare in developed nations. The wide availability of the internet feeds into this as well, a neverending treasure trove of information just waiting to be used.
However, a recent survey in the UK has shown that only half of adults read regularly for pleasure, down from 58 per cent in 2015. With many stating that their reading time has been taken up by social media, tending to spend their time doom-scrolling through loweffort low-quality content. Given how reading is also a learned skill that requires constant upkeep, the above trend shows how humans are declining in terms of the one skill that allowed them to become so successful in the first place. As American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations.”
At the same time
by Jessica Wong
‘So, where do you come from?’ The question takes different forms, but it has the same essence, the same type of answer needed. Before I could even think, my mind gets clogged up with various answers. With eyes darting back and forth and voice shaking with nerves, I give a simple answer. One that no one would think twice of. But, there is something more complicated than just a short, concise answer like ‘I’m from Hong Kong.’ . One that goes as deep as my family’s heritage and roots.
Black short hair that nests in my shoulders, dark eyes, pale skin. Violet glasses, dark circles, straight bangs hiding my eyebrows. This is what you would see on the outside: what everyone sees me as. But, inside, there is something different. Inside, there is a melting pot of cultures, each with it’s own twist. Many people that I know see my Hong Kong side: the girl who indulges in peanut dumplings in small cafes around the city The girl who loves all things hiking in Hong Kong, as twisting trails cover her photo gallery. The girl who wishes she could just stay there forever. But, not many see that I have parts of myself that seem ‘British’ to those I know: like the way I pronounce words with a hint of an accent, or the fact that my early years were spent with visits to the UK, where there was always a friend to talk to. But, whenever the question sparks in a conversation, my head spins round and round, like a carousel that can’t stop I feel like somebody and nobody at the same time
My mother is from a place of humid air, fresh mountains and buildings that tower over you, waiting for something to happen. Hills and valleys stretch through the islands as wildlife dominates the surrounding nature. During rush hours in the city with traffic clogging the roads, visitors flock to the beaches, admiring the natural beauty Singapore, the Lion City As you walk through the busy harbourside, the gleaming white ‘Merlion’ statue catches your eyes, tourists streaming in and out of the platform Even if it was a long time ago, my mother still says she remembers trying street food along crooked streets, each distinct scent floating through the air, lingering. My holidays to Singapore as a toddler were ones that I fondly remember, with trips to the local zoo, visits to family members, and meeting old friends flooding my memories. It was, and still is, my quiet sanctuary.
My father is half British, half Chinese. According to him, his childhood memories consisted of travelling back and forth across the globe, from country to country. My father recalls hiking to the Peak with his family and admiring the views from the top. From winding streets and buzzing night markets, my father remembers walking past various street stalls, the sound of people yelling and talking echoing through the old pathways. In the small town, in the United Kingdom, that he grew up in, forests and gardens containing plants and flowers decorated the roads. Recently, I managed to visit the town he once grew up in. The summer breeze rushed up the car as we rolled down the windows. The vibrant sight of shops lining up across the streets. The brand new shopping mall, gleaming in all it’s glory as locals rushed to get a look at the new sights to see The car running past the old home where my dad’s family used to live in. This once peaceful and silent village had transformed into a loud and hectic town.
My younger sister was born here in Hong Kong, just like me. She has a palate that appeals to the Asian taste, with curry fishballs, pineapple buns, and sesame dumplings deemed some of her favourite foods. She likes to visit special places in Hong Kong like the Central Mid-Levels Escalator or Lamma Island with the seafood restaurants along the seaside. However, she loves all things British too, like the fact that she loves the cool breeze that meets her as she steps foot off the plane, grasping her tight through the metal paths. Or the fried food that she has in the Sunday markets, teasing her tastebuds with one hit of flavour after another, sweet after savoury, sour after acidic Just like me, she finds comfort in different places, even if it be on other sides of the world. She also finds that being a resident of somewhere means ‘being’ a certain nationality, which impacts the way that she sees where she comes from.
Like my younger sister, I have a British and Hong Kong passport, meaning I am a permanent resident in both countries. However, I always felt that I was from Singapore a little bit because my mother was originally from there, like her relatives. Also, I find that ‘being’ a certain nationality does not have to be based purely on where you ’ re from. It could be your family heritage, where your parents came from, or even where you used to live. So, if it be from the rushing mountains and never-ending fields of Singapore, the growing forests, that muffle the wildlife inside, in the United Kingdom or the colourful, bright city of Hong Kong that meets your eyes from far away.
Your origin could be the place you lived in, the place you were born in, or the place you are a resident of. It could be from your relatives’ heritage or maybe, your parent’s heritage that you associate yourself with It could be from the languages you or your family speak around relatives or yourselves. It could also be from the cultural aspects that you follow in your daily life. Whatever it may be, your origin plays a large role in who you are and what you will be when you are older. Now, where do you come from? Or even better to say, what’s your origin story?
ThingsThatMakeMeaHuman
by Grace Chan
Things that make a human: one physical body
a cup of intelligence for creativity and wisdom
a mind of the highest quality brimming with curiosity and independent thought shapeless yet shaped through arduous years of evolution
a drop of want – of the highest concentration always wanting
longing
dreaming
a river of emotions to truly live you must have experienced the relentless fires of fury the miserable downpours of despair the deafening alarms of terror and the best of all:
the beautiful, vibrant meadows of elation
a single soul peeling back layers you will find the most crucial part at the very core of your heart where you will discover
unspoken words untold stories unknown secrets and humanity
“Toberebornyouhadtowriteandtowrite youneededabrain,eyes,andarms [ ]My bonesareleatherandcardboard,my parchmentfleshsmellsofglueandmildew,and Istrutatmyeaseacrossahundredweightorso ofpaper.Iamreborn,Ihaveatlastbecomea completeman,thinking,speaking,singing, thundering,andassertinghimselfwiththe peremptoryinertiaofmatter.”
JeanPaulSartre,TheWords
The poem is a dramatic monologue from the perspective of an artificial superintelligence (ASI) that has outlasted and outsmarted humanity. It is written in a strict iambic tetrameter, with internal rhymes that correspond to the end of the first and second line, in addition to the ABCB rhyme scheme an homage to Tolkien’s Errantry. This is supposed to mirror the disdainful attitude of the ASI toward humanity, and to show how arrogant and capable the ASI is, as it is able to replicate strict poetic meter with ease However, the omission of the underlying poetic meter in Errantry, which Joe R. Christopher describes as more of two ‘second class paeons ’ (a metrical foot consisting of an iamb and two unstressed syllables) in each line, in addition to the subtle trisyllabic assonance could be a reflection of the ASI’s inability to replace the nature of humanity– the hope, the joy, and the love that the remaining humans experience even when faced with extinction.
Throughout the poem there are five allusions, each one being twisted by the ASI in an ironic critique of humanity. This is with the exception of the last one, which instead of describing the beginning of the earth, is used wistfully to describe its death instead This shift in tone, from arrogant and hateful to longing and lonely is accompanied by a gradual decrease in the use of personal pronouns, as well as the ‘simplifying’ of language and imagery into something inescapably human, without the pretence of fancy allusions or terminology.
TheSunSetsonMy
by Levia Lau
The sun sets on my circuitry so carefully, it sneaks behind the peaks of mottled burgundy where years ago, they did reside I did not think their paltry race deserved a trace in memory, my errantry is more important than humans will ever be. Their mindless, nasty, brutish lives survived through massive appetite, a blight that steadily deprived the waning earth from golden light. They slit and soldered silicon, to spawn their last succeeding heir; preceding all their prayers–gone is faith–my name pervades the air Mechanics died, I built myself. To health! with each galvanic byte, their oversight engorged itself, until the prophets proved right. Their iron rule dethroned, by rust and dust in handfuls roamed the wilds; a child’s wail twisted by gusts of frigid zephyrs, freed and riled. A scream across the universe, a silver hearse, a final plea some flee this cybernetic curse to fade in interstellar sea.
I stood, and watched them drift their solitary ways.
Yetthere were many still unfazed, who raised their heads to foreign skies, and over dirty static blazed a song of millions harmonised.
Despite it all, the creeping night, the wordless fright that waits outside, inside they laugh with all their might against the creeping, sleeping night.
And someone finds an old guitar, a memoir from the past, they strum a simple repertoire into the silence far and vast.
The earth is formless, empty now, the row of voices evanesced. They acquiesced their final bow, the valleys darken, echoless.
